


Skin Deep

by ZionAngel



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-09
Updated: 2012-02-17
Packaged: 2017-10-30 20:38:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/335820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZionAngel/pseuds/ZionAngel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Henry Mills once told the librarian that she was Belle, a long time ago, in another life. Of course, his version of the story features a manipulative, magical, but (she has always believed) good-hearted trickster for the Beast, and a painful ending.  But she has always believed that, after the book's end, the lovers may have hope of finding each other again.  ---  Based on episode 12, "Skin Deep."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Skin Deep

Chapter 1

By ZionAngel

... ...

Once again, Mr. Gold eyes the oil painting, its gilded frame propped against the filing cabinets in his back office. It has collected a fine layer of dust in the time it has been here, hidden away here instead of in the front shop. He sighs in frustration and looks away.

He doesn't want to do this. He doesn't want t go _there_ , or see _her_. Just the thought of it is enough to fill him with dread, and the sting of old wounds time has not truly been able to heal. But he has made every conceivable effort to avoid this, to find some other way around it. He knows he'll have to do it eventually – he may as well get it over with, and on a relatively good day, like today. So, before he can change his mind, he fishes his keys off the hook by the office door, locks up the shop behind him, and starts walking.

With a cane and a bad leg, the walk to the Storybrooke Library takes about twelve minutes. With one step, he tries to think of some way to avoid this, and with the next, he reminds himself that there is none, and that he must bite the bullet and get it over with. Still, when he places a hand on the door of the old brick building, he needs a deep breath to steady himself.

She's just a woman, he tells himself. Just another stranger he's never met.

A bell above the door rings as he enters. Inside, there are children reading picture books on the floor, a few teenagers with research books at the tables in back. And even though he knew it would happen, he startles when she emerges from a row of shelves to the right, tucking a lock of brunette hair behind her ear as she greets him. As much as he thought he had prepared, he is struck by the beauty in her sweet smile.

"Hi," she says as she approaches. "You're Mr. Gold, right?"

"Yes," he responds after a moment.

"I'm Anna, I'm the librarian." She offers her hand to him. So sweet, polite, so openly friendly.

 _Kind_. Always so kind.

He takes her hand and shakes it. "Nice to meet you."

"Can I help you find something in particular?"

He has to make a conscious effort to behave normally. "Yes, I've recently acquired a painting, but I'm having some difficulty finding out much about it, even online. I'm hoping you have some books that can shed some light on it." Try as he might to ignore the urge, the longer he looks at her, the more he wants to get out of there as quickly as possible.

"Sure, I think I can help with that." She turns, and he follows, but before they can make it three steps, the door opens with a jingle, and Henry Mills comes rushing in, his backpack bouncing behind him. She greets him and ruffles his hair, and Mr. Gold curses his luck. "What's up?"

"You know that book you gave to Miss Blanchard to give to me? Well… I kinda lost it."

"Oh, sweetie, I'm sorry to hear that." Mr. Gold can't help but watch her out of the corner of his eye, drawn in by the caring and affection she shows the boy. "You know that book was a gift, you don't have to worry about giving it back."

"No, that's not it. I was actually wondering if you had another copy. I promise I won't lose this one, I wouldn't even have to take it out of the library."

"No, I'm sorry, Henry," she says, rubbing his shoulder. "That book was one of a kind. There are no other copies." At this, Henry looks sad, even worried. She kneels down in front of him. "But hey, that was my very favorite book. I've probably read the whole thing at least ten times. So if you ever want to know about one of the stories, you just come ask me and I can tell you all about it. Okay?"

The boy seems content with that, so he thanks her, says goodbye to them both, and leaves as quickly as he came.

She stands, and straightens her shirt as she leads him off again. "Do you know about that book? Henry's fairytale book."

"I think I may have heard of it in passing," he says, sounding uninterested.

Her soft laugh reminds him of the bells on the door. "He thinks we're all fairytale characters from it, and we don't remember because we're cursed. It's adorable."

"You don't say." All he wants – desperately _needs_ – is to get out of there as soon as he can, with as little interaction as possible. He doesn't want to be reminded of another life, especially when he's worked so hard to forget the parts that involve _her_.

She turns back to him with a smile. "He thinks I'm Belle, of course."

With that, he stops short, his legs refusing to carry him further, lungs refusing to breathe, just from hearing her say the name.

"From _Beauty and the Beast_ ," she clarifies. She continues forward again. "Because I run the library, and I'm always reading." She starts up the stairs, and he manages to catch up before she notices. His mind is in something of a daze, and at this point he is simply praying that she will drop the subject entirely.

"And of course it doesn't hurt that the whole town thinks I'm weird." She leads him between shelves full of books. "But it's not your standard fairytales. That's why I liked it so much. Actually, Rumplestiltskin is the beast in this version." She glances back at him again, smiling with the simple joy of retelling a good story. "It has a miserable ending, though. It always makes me so sad."

Deep down inside, he feels he feels old wounds of sorrow and loss, of anger, opening again, and a hand slowly squeezing his heart.

"Well, I've always found that story to be rather unrealistic," he says, his words biting. "It certainly would be an unhappy ending if you tried to love someone so monstrous."

"No!" She stops abruptly, looking stricken. "That's not it at all! Rumplestiltskin wasn't a monster." She looks down, her eyes dark. "Everyone _thought_ he was, but he wasn't. Not really… not deep down."

Now Mr. Gold is more stunned and confused than anything, to hear her so vehemently defend the character. He doesn't understand what she means, can't quite seem to wrap his head around her words. But then, before he can even try to make sense of any of it, she stops in front of a shelf, the words 'Art History' pressed into the spines of the books there.

As she asks him about his painting, he recites the answers robotically, without thinking. He watches as she selects books from the shelf, flips through them silently, and puts them back. Before long she has put two old, leather-bound books in his hands. And then he finds they are both at the front door again. She holds it open for him. As he leaves, she smiles at him again, so purely, with such genuine kindness, and she waves goodbye. He smiles weakly in return, completely disarmed by her.

As he walks slowly back to his shop, his mind still reels in confusion, replaying her words over and over, until they seem to lose all meaning.

... ...

Standing as far from the dance floor as she can manage, avoiding the eyes of every young man who comes near, she does her level best to blend into the shadowy corner. She feels uncomfortable, bare in her mother's strapless yellow gown. Most of all, she feels out of place.

It is difficult enough, most days, to go into town and interact with just a handful of the people who think she is odd and strange at best, who think she cannot hear them whisper behind her back about how unfortunate it is that such beauty was wasted on a girl who always has her head stuck in a book. Even then, she only has to deal with a few people at a time, and they will mostly let her do what she came for and be on her way. But here, at this awful ball, she is surrounded by every last adult in the town, each dressed in their finest clothes and jewels, however humble they may be. Here there is no pretext, no business to be done, only small talk and social niceties and a few dozen eligible young bachelors stalking the young women of the town onto the dance floor. And the few – Gaston the worst of them – who have tried to catch her eye and drag her onto the dance floor, are the most unsavory of them all, the ones so hell-bent on claiming the most beautiful woman as their prize that they don't care if she's the strange bookworm. It takes every transparent and pathetic excuse she can come up with to keep them at bay tonight.

The hand on her back makes her jump. But her father's laugh echoes beside her ear. "It's only me, Belle."

"Papa, you scared me," she laughs in return. She presses in closer to him, turning away from the crowds, hoping no one will come to her while he is there. Even as a grown woman she feels like a little girl, shy and hiding away in her father's coat for protection.

"We really must get you out and socializing one of these days, Belle."

"We really must find some people who don't see me as either an oddity or a potential trophy wife, Papa."

He smiles and kisses her forehead. "Yes, I suppose we must." From behind his back he produces a book, leather-bound with the title embossed in silver leaf. She sighs gratefully, and embraces him before taking the book and hurrying towards the stairs.

The balconies overlooking the ballroom are deserted, save for one or two young couples stealing a moment to themselves. She has no trouble finding a secluded corner, lit by candelabras and moonlight from an open window, and she quickly loses herself within the pages of the book.

She reads late into the night as the revelers dance below her. And so, when she hears the faintest sound of a scream, she believes she must have begun to doze, or else one of the townspeople has had one too many glasses of wine. Even as she stands to stretch her legs, and hears the echo again, she pays it little mind. It is not until the third time, when a shrill cry of terror rings out from the woods beyond the open window, that she becomes afraid.

She searches the dark treeline and hills beyond for some sign of what is wrong, and as she squints, she can see firelight flickering through the trees, approaching the town. Another scream rips through the forest, this time followed by the most terrifying, guttural growl she has ever heard. The ballroom below is suddenly much quieter, revelers listening for the cries as well. Suddenly, the firelight emerges from the trees, torches carried by three men. They all wear broken suits of armor, half the pieces broken or missing completely, the metal dulled by a thick layer of blood. Belle gasps at the sight, and as the men race for the open doors of the banquet hall, two massive creatures come lumbering out of the woods behind them. Belle's eyes widen, and before she even realizes what she is doing, she runs to the edge of the balcony, overlooking the dance floor below, and screams at the top of her lungs.

"Ogres!"

As the word leaves her lips, the soldiers come barreling in, and moments later, a crash and a shower of wood and stone as the ogres break through the door frames. The hall fills with screams and cries of utter terror. One of the soldiers falls to the floor, and the first ogre smashes his head with one massive fist, killing him instantly. Another soldier drops his torch and pulls out his sword, slashing at the nearest ogre. Through the chaos, she sees Gaston and several other men who came to the ball with swords join the fight. Belle races across the balcony to the stairs, and hurries down as quickly as she can, nearly tripping over her skirt. By the time she makes it to the bottom, the screams and shouts have died down. She pushes her way through the still frantic crowd, and finds a pool of blood spreading across the dance floor. In the center lie the two ogres, dead, one with a sword through the back of his neck and the other with a large dagger sticking out from his temple. One soldier is dead, another lies clutching a wound at his side and does not look like he will survive more than a few minutes. The third is cradling a clearly broken arm. Four of her fellow townsmen bear sliced and bloodied clothes, but all are standing with their own strength and seem all right.

In the commotion still running through the room, she hears her father, calling out her name. She follows the voice and when he finds her, he sweeps her up in a crushing hug. "I'm fine, Papa, I'm fine."

When he is assured of her well-being, he joins the other town elders in questioning the soldiers. The badly wounded one manages to tell them little before he bleeds to death. The other, as several people help him pull off his armor and tend to his arm, tells them that he and his fellow soldiers were caught in a battle on the front lines of the ogre wars, and that they were somehow separated from the battle, and have been running for their lives since before sundown.

"That's impossible!" one man shouts. "The nearest battles of the ogre wars are hundreds of miles away!"

"Current circumstances would suggest otherwise." The voice that speaks is shrill and coarse, sick and delighted. Belle turns, along with everyone else, to the source of the voice at the far end of the room. Standing in the center of a crowd, far from any doors, like he simply appeared on the spot, is a small, thin, sickly looking man with a wicked smile on his face.

Gaston, standing nearby, brandishes his sword as the crowd steps away from the stranger. "Where the hell did you come from?"

"Now is that any way to treat a guest?" he asks, lips turning up in a mocking grin.

Gaston will have none of it. "Tell me who you are, imp, or so help me –"

Without warning and as if it possessed free will of its own, the sword flies from Gaston's hand and hovers in the air above his head. Gasps sound throughout the room, but Belle only stares, watching carefully as the stranger narrows his eyes at Gaston in a glare.

"I suggest you put that away," he says quietly, "before you hurt yourself." As quickly as it rose, the sword flies back to Gaston, the broad side of it hitting him across the midsection and throwing him to the floor. After that, the sword clatters to the floor, inanimate once again.

Belle takes a deep breath, but does not cower like many others in the room. She has seen true magic very few times in her life, but she has read enough to know not to fear the magic itself. Only the magician, if anything, should be feared. She watches the stranger closely.

Her father steps forward, shoulders square and head held high. "Who are you? And why are you here?"

The stranger smiles, showing yellowed teeth. "I," he says, bowing with a flourish, "am Rumpelstiltskin."

Gasps and whispers fill the room. The name has floated in rumors from far and wide for many, many years now.

He stands straight again, and steps towards her father. "And I am here to help you with your… _pest problem_. This soldier speaks true, the ogre wars have been raging through the lands for many months now. And, unfortunately for all of you folk, they've been raging in this direction. The nearest battle is not more than ten miles from this very building, and the rest are sure to catch up soon."

Belle moves through the crowd, so she can better hear Rumpelstiltskin speak over the frightened voices  
filling the room.

"And how do you propose to help us with that?"

He smiles wickedly again, and gestures with dirty hands and blackened nails. "With magic, of course!" He clasps his hands behind his back and skips closer to her father and the other town elders. "I can cast a spell upon this entire town, and everyone within it, that will ensure that neither the ogres, nor the armies fighting them, will ever find your village. No matter how close the battles get, even if they _try_ to seek you out, they will _never_ be able to find you."

"… You're _sure_?"

He stops, turns back to her father, and smiles. "I _guarantee_ it."

"Then do it!" another elder shouts, and many voices chorus in relieved agreement.

"Ah ah ah!" he chides, waving a finger. "Not so fast! I can do this for you, but it will cost you."

"Of course, anything!" Her father looks to the crowd, waving at them. "Everyone pass up your jewels, all of them, quickly –"

"No, no," he says, stopping them. "I have no interest in your little _trinkets_. My price is something much more _valuable_."

The room falls silent. They have heard stories, of a man who trades in infants, as his price and his commodity. Few ever believed the tales, but now, Belle knows, each and every one fears it.

She looks to her father. He takes a deep breath, and looks him square in the eye. "Name it."

Rumpelstiltskin smiles, and sweeps his eyes across the room. "I see many very beautiful young women in this town. My price, for protecting this village, is that one of you must come and live with me as my companion."

Screams and outraged cries echo through the room, louder even than the screams when the ogres burst through the door.

"Come, now! Come, now!" Rumpelstiltskin shouts, his voice carrying over the noise. The crowd quiets, but not completely. "It's a perfectly reasonable arrangement. And of course, as soon as the war is over, and your town no longer needs to be concealed, she will be free to return."

"The war has been going on for decades!" one woman shouts. "It could last for another century! The woman you take may never be free!"

"A risk you will have to take." Debate rages through the room, shouts of anger and counter-offers. When it shows no sign of quieting, Rumpelstiltskin loses patience. " _Silence_!" The room falls quiet. "You have heard my price, and it is _not_ negotiable. Either pay the price and protect your town, or take your chances without me. Now," he says, eyeing several young women in turn. "I am not picky as to which one of you ladies comes with me, anyone fairly young and pretty will do. So… do we have a volunteer?"

The noise that filled the room moments ago is now matched by utter silence. Not a single gasp, nor whisper, not even the shuffling of feet can be heard. The only sound is the click of his boots as he begins to circle the edge of the crowd, expectantly. The silence stretches out, feeling like hours, days, as the women in the room glance nervously at each other. But none speak up.

"Really?" he eventually asks. "No one? Not a one of you is willing to save your village?"

"I'll go."

Belle almost does not recognize the words as her own, does not know they are coming until they escape her lips. But once spoken, she does not regret them, and she does not try to take them back.

All at once, each and every one of them turns to find the voice, and they stare, still silent, as Rumpelstiltskin clasps his hands in delight and walks towards her. "My, my, my." He examines her, and although she has never felt more bare and exposed in all of her life, she holds her head up high, and looks him square in the eye. "I don't think I could have found a more beautiful woman in this room if I had chosen for myself. Tell me your name."

"Belle."

"Belle. Beauty. How very fitting." He smiles, lecherous and greedy, and a shiver runs down her spine. "Well then. Let's go draw up the contract, shall we?"

She takes a deep breath to steel herself, and follows him out of the ballroom and into one of the smaller outlying chambers.

She follows him to a nearby table, where he produces a parchment and quill with a small puff of magic. As he smoothes the paper out on the table, she hears several sets of heavy footsteps rushing into the room behind them. Her father is first, and he grabs her by the shoulders, his grip tighter than she has ever felt.

"Belle, you don't have to do this –"

"It's all right, Papa –"

Three other elders are next into the room, and Gaston is the last.

"We'll find another way!" he insists, shaking her without meaning to. "We'll fight the ogres off, we'll fortify our defenses –"

" _It won't work, Papa_ ," she insists, holding his arms gently. "We can't protect ourselves from this war. We just can't. This way I know that you and everyone else will be safe. And I'll be safe, too, Papa. I just won't be here."

Tears fall from her father's eyes, but he can say nothing in protest. She smiles sadly, and wipes them from his cheeks. "This is my choice, Papa. I know what I'm doing. I'm okay with this."

"Belle, you can't do this!" Gaston shouts. "You're being ridiculous! I won't allow you to do this!"

She glares at him over her shoulder. "Since when do _my_ actions require _your_ permission, Gaston?"

"Don't be so stupid! You cannot go with some monstrous imp and –"

"What would you have me do?" she snaps, closing the gap between them and yelling without inhibition. "Would you have me be selfish and stay here, be _your_ little wife, cook your meals every day, and then every night pray that we are not all _slaughtered_? Should I let us all be ripped to shreds by vicious ogres? Should I let soldiers pillage our town and steal our food for themselves until there is nothing left? Let them force us all into their armies until every able-bodied person in this town lies dead on some far-off battlefield? No! This is my decision and I have made it!"

"I will not have this monster take you!"

"And I will not have you fight my battles for me, Gaston!" And then, as quickly as it came, her anger simply falls away. She sighs and shakes her head slowly. Beside the table, Rumpelstiltskin waits patiently. He holds up the quill in one hand, and the completed contract in the other. "There is no battle to fight. Not for anyone."

And with that, she goes to the table, takes the quill and parchment, and with no hesitation and a steady hand, she signs the contract.

"Excellent," Rumpelstiltskin grins as the contract disappears. "Shall we be on our way, then?"

She nods, but turns back to her father. He pulls her into a hug, his body shaking with sobs as she buries herself in his jacket one last time. "I love you, Papa."

A sob rips from his chest, and he buries his face further in her hair. "I love you, Belle, more than anything."

"I'll be okay, Papa," she whispers. "I promise."

As she pulls away, he kisses her cheek, and gives her one last brave, loving smile. She steps away and goes toward Rumpelstiltskin, holding her head high and proud. He flashes another of those terrifying grins, and puts a hand around her waist, fingers a little too tight. She turns to her father again, smiling bravely as she feels magic creep up and envelop them into darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

For three days, Belle feels lonelier than she ever has in her life.

When he first brings her to his home, after he takes her from her town, he shows her to a lavish room, bigger than her home – her _old_ home – filled with finely crafted furniture and a plush bed.  He explains to her, the finer points of their contract, and what is required of her to fulfill it.  She must have dinner with him each night, dressed nicely, and she must be good company.  She can go anywhere she pleases in the castle and the grounds, and can have all the jewels and clothes and goods she could possibly desire.  But, of course, for all this luxury, she cannot leave without express permission.  Surprisingly, he does not require anything more from her, the kinds of things she would expect a man holding a woman as his _companion_ would require.  For that, at least, she is grateful.

That night, despite the soft, silk sheets, the warm blankets and down pillows, she tosses and turns, barely sleeping at all.  At her first dinner with Rumpelstiltskin, and then the second, she does her duty, puts on one of the nice dresses provided in her wardrobe, and joins him for dinner.  She sits demurely across the table from him, nodding politely when he speaks, offering a brief answer when he asks a question, but saying almost nothing besides that.  She does her best to be cordial and pleasant, truly, but the task proves tremendously difficult when she is haunted by thoughts of what she has lost, and may never regain.

She cannot fathom the idea of staying here, with Rumpelstiltskin, for years untold, if not the rest of her life.  The idea is all but inconceivable, and terrifying at that.  Already, she misses her father as though he has died.  She misses her own home, with her tiny room and it’s lumpy, hay-stuffed mattress, packed in tight with chests full of their few possessions.  She misses the familiar, boring comfort of her town.  She even finds herself missing all the townspeople, kind to her face, whispering behind her back, and always, always nice to her.  She never would have thought anything in the whole world could make her miss that tedious, provincial little town, but now she wants nothing more than to return to it.

It is not as though Rumpelstiltskin treats her poorly, and spending time in his company proves to be far less frightening and uncomfortable than she expected.  The rumors and fearful tales that had circulated about him for so long, it seems, are not true, or at the very least, not so accurate as to make him a threat to her.  She finds, to her surprise, that she is not the least bit afraid of this man.  At worst, he simply makes her feel uncomfortable.  Nevertheless, he is a stranger to her, a strange man who took her away from her home.  And she does not know how she is supposed to live like that.

She does not regret her decision, not even for a moment.  Her own freedom is a small price to pay to ensure the safety of her town, she knows that full well.  But that does not make the reality of her situation any easier.

… …

Rumpelstiltskin watches his new companion with a hawk’s eye in her first days at the castle.  He observes the way she moves and speaks, the way she looks at him and the slump of her shoulders at the dinner table.  It becomes immediately apparent that the fierce spark he saw in the wake of the ogre attack, the fire that so intrigued and enticed him, has faded.  Her face is always downcast, in shadows, and the beauty of her features is marred by the sorrow and loneliness and misery in her expression.

She did not cry when she left with him, and he knows she has not cried since she has been here, not one single tear.  It is a very unexpected twist, to be sure, but he can see it is only a brave façade, and that she is hurting inside.  Even more unexpected is that, in spite of this, she has been nothing but polite, very quiet, but civil.  He had prepared to experience far worse, spite and anger cruelty, especially in the first few days, but with her there is none of it.  It is a rather pleasant surprise, he must admit.

Still, after three days, as she becomes more relaxed, familiar with the castle and her new routine, the sadness that envelops her does not dissipate.  To see her in such a state, though he barely knows her, is unpleasant and disheartening.  Her unhappiness is like a dark magic, spreading to him, and pulling him into sadness as well.  It takes some pondering on the subject before he realizes that he wants her to be happy here.  And after three days, after three dinners filled with uncomfortable, one-sided conversation, he surprises himself by deciding to do something about it.

… …

On afternoon of her fourth day in the castle, Belle sits in her bedroom in the, staring absently out the window as she brushes her hair.  With little else to do, she studies the intricate flowers and filigree designs etched into the back of the silver-handled brush.

A sharp knock on the door makes her jump.  She takes a deep breath and forces her heart to slow before she crosses the room, and answers.  She holds her hands against the edge of the door, half hiding behind it as Rumpelstiltskin smiles.  She may not fear him, but there is a certain emotional safety in her hours of solitude, and his intrusion into that time makes her wary.

“Good afternoon, my dear.”

“Hello.”

“I’ve given it some consideration, and it seems we’ve started off on the wrong foot, you and I, and for that I take full responsibility.”  He places a hand to his chest and bows his head, as if in apology, and, oddly, he actually seems sincere and without any ulterior motive.  “This is to be your new life and your new home, after all, and I have not given you a proper welcome.  I want you to be happy during your stay here, so I hope you will allow me to amend my error now.”

For a moment, Belle simply stares at him, dumbfounded and completely speechless.  The offer, as well as the thought and consideration behind it, are so unexpected that she struggles to find a response to them.  It is not until she notices a slight change in his expression, a faint look of fear in his eyes, that she forces herself to speak.

“I – yes, that – that would be… nice.”

He smiles, not the frightening, wicked she saw when they first met, but instead something gentle and genuine.  He steps aside and gestures for her to join him, and Belle, still a bit shocked, follows him.

As she walks a half step behind him, letting him lead her to the castle entryway, she finally begins to process his offer.  It is actually very thoughtful of him, to make this extra effort, and try to make her feel welcome and comfortable.  He could so easily leave her to her own devices, to learn her way around the castle on her own, let her simply get used to the idea of being here and resign herself to her new confinement.  Yet here he is, acknowledging a mistake, and going out of his way to remedy that and help her to feel comfortable and welcome here, to help her feel at home.  She smiles a little, thinking that it is actually quite sweet of him.  And she’s glad for it, too.  It gives her hope that perhaps her life here will not be wholly miserable.

When they reach the grand entryway, he spins on his heel and smiles.  “Belle, my dear, please allow me officially welcome you to your new home.”  With a wave of his hand and a flicker of magic, he produces a long-stem red rose, and holds it out to her with hopeful eyes.  “And may I say what a pleasure it is to have you here.”

She can’t help but smile at the little trick and the showmanship, and she thanks him as she takes the offered flower.

“And I shall be your host, Rumpelstiltskin.”  He bows with a flourish as before, and she plays along, curtseying slightly with a swish of her skirt.  He seems quite intent on cheering her up, and already, it seems to be working.

With that he takes her on a tour of the castle, showing her through the many rooms, and the gardens, and shortcuts from one place to another.  He tells her a bit about the castle and its features, the history behind it, and how he came to possess one item or another.  Belle follows along, listening as he speaks and taking it all in.  Now that she has a chance to see the place and look carefully, she finds that it’s actually a rather nice place, with lovely art and architecture, everything lavish and comfortable, all decorated in gold.  She plays with the rose as they go along, spinning it and pressing it to her nose to smell its lovely scent, and admiring how perfectly formed it is.

“And here,” he says, the doors before them opening with a wave of his hand, “we have the library.”

When she looks up to see the room in question, she is certain that she must be dreaming and will awaken at any moment.  The room before her seems to stretch on and on forever, white walls and painted ceilings and gilded ornaments around tall windows, all of it seemingly designed just to show off the impossible collection of books.  Her mind simply cannot process the sight before her, tens or hundreds of thousands of books, two stories high on each wall, all in one massive room.

A hand on her back pushes her forward into the room, and as she enters she can see several doorways on either side of the room, no doubt leading to annexes filled with even _more_ books.  She turns to him and tries to speak, but only incoherent, nonsensical sounds come out.

“I take it you like what you see?”

Human speech slowly returns to her.  “I… _books_.”

He laughs.  “Yes, books, quite a lot of them.  I find having an extensive collection of knowledge at one’s fingertips can be very useful.”

“How… how did you get all these?”

“I’ve been collecting them for quite a while, from many different places.”  He grins at her, apparently amused by her shock.

Slowly, Belle begins to move on her own, walking further into the room and turning to see everything.  “…I didn’t know this many books even _existed_.  And they’re all different?”

“No two copies of any book, nearly all written in the same language.  I believe the oldest one here is a little over two hundred years old.  You, of course, are free to enjoy all of them.”

She turns back to him, staring, still stunned, because she now knows that no matter how long she is required to stay here with him, even if it is until her dying day, she will never be completely miserable.  She looks around again, smiling joyously.  She reaches out to touch Rumpel’s arm gently in thanks, and then, like a little child, rushes to the nearest shelf and begins flipping through books.

So enthralled is she by her new collection, in fact, that she is completely oblivious to the effect her simple touch has on him.

… …

For many nights after, Belle simply _has_ to bring a book with her to the dinner table.  It takes all of her willpower not to simply read through the entire meal, but she cannot forgo sneaking a few paragraphs between courses.  She does a poor job of hiding it though, the open book in her lap beneath her napkin.  One evening she becomes a little too engrossed in the story, reads a bit too long, and does not realize it until Rumpelstiltskin laughs at her from across the table.

“I take it you’re enjoying the library?” he asks, bemused.

She blushes and closes the book.  “I love it,” she admits softly.  She thinks back for a moment, remembering her town.  “I’ve always liked to read.  I enjoy just about anything, novels, history, philosophy… anything.  If a book is any good at all, I can read the whole thing in just two or three days.  Back home I only had a few dozen books of my own, mostly from travelling merchants who passed through town every few months.  And the closest thing the town had to a library was one little room in the back of the town hall chambers.”

Finally she glances up across the table, only to find him watching her with a little smile.  She laughs at herself, blushing again.  “I’m sorry, I must be terribly boring, rambling on and on like this, about silly old books.”

“No, it’s fine,” he says, and actually seems to mean it.  “I don’t mind at all.  It’s nice to have someone else to talk to, actually.”

He takes a sip of his wine, and she takes it as a sign for her to continue.  “Well, I must have read every single book in that place at least once.  I must have read at least half of them twice.  I probably would have read all of them a half dozen times each by the time I was an old woman.  I always got so excited whenever we could get a new book I’d never read before.  So to have that big library now, with all those books, more than I could ever possibly read…”  She laughs at herself, at how giddy she is.  “It’s very exciting.  I think I’ll probably be in there every waking minute.”

She takes a few bites of her meal, and lets a comfortable silence fall over them for a few minutes.

“Thank you for showing me the library, and letting me use it,” she murmurs softly, in genuine gratitude.

He smiles at her, a simple, unthreatening, kind smile.  “You’re quite welcome.”  And then they fall into silence again.

It amazes her just how much her perception of this man has changed in only the past few days.  She was, if she is completely honest with herself, afraid when she first came here.  Afraid of him, afraid of what he might do, or what life might be like with him.  But now, she has seen a different side of him.  He has turned out to be a rather sweet and gentle man.  There is kindness in him, something she never would have expected when he first appeared at the ball that night.  As much as she surprises herself with the thought, she is beginning to think that she might actually be able to be happy here, with him.  She had always thought she would be stuck in that boring little town forever, her life never amounting to anything worthwhile or extraordinary.  She had always dreamed of a happier life, full of intrigue, perhaps even adventure.  And now, she is beginning to think that, shockingly, she may actually be able to make that life for herself here.  She may actually be able to find happiness here.

She looks up from her meal, watches him for a few moments, then looks back down.  She smiles.  Perhaps, as they have for characters in so many of her books, these things have happened to her for a reason.

… …

As time goes on and he has the chance to consider it, Rumpelstiltskin soon decides that he is rather lucky to have Belle.  Her presence and company are far more pleasant than what he would have gotten with any number of other women who might have been in her place.  Truthfully, when he set his price for protecting her town, he expected the woman who came with him to be antagonistic towards him, standoffish, appalled and disgusted by him.  But of course, this was nothing new to him, so he was not concerned by it.  Of course, he imagined that his guest would adjust eventually, and at the very least be comfortable in his presence, though she would probably remain passive aggressive and spiteful.  He expected the woman who came with him to be shallow and vain for her beauty.  Now that Belle is with him, now that he sees her compassion and kindness, it seems a wonder that he ever wanted so much less.

He set his price for protecting her town because he wanted companionship, another voice to talk to, someone to help him stave off the loneliness that has become harder and harder to ignore over the years.  He thought having someone pretty would be more than enough to satisfy him.  But now, the idea of having only that seems so pointless.  She is so much more than just a pretty face now – in fact, her beauty is quite far down on the list of things he enjoys about her.

But not only did he never even fathom finding someone like Belle, someone so kind and sweet, even in the face of everything, he never would have believed she would come to genuinely enjoy being here with him, to enjoy his company in return.  This, whatever they have between them, is forever new and unexpected.  Every day brings something else he had not planned for.  It was jarring at first, but these unexpected things have turned out to be pleasant far more often than not.

She has given him much more happiness than he had expected.

So, as he is walking through his castle one day and sees her through a window, he finds it only natural to stop and watch.  She is reading in the garden, in the shade of a tree, resting against the trunk.  She is perfectly relaxed, lost in the pages of her book, as is typical of her.  It seems she is always reading, very often somewhere other than the library.  She particularly seems to enjoy the gardens on mild days like this.  He watches as her delicate hands flip one page, and then, soon, another, and another.

With a start, he realizes that he is staring, watching her for far longer than he needs to, and with far more intensity as well.  He steps back from the window, shaking his head to clear his mind, and continues on down the hall as if nothing happened.

He spends much of his afternoon trying to push the memory from his mind, pretend it never happened.  Then, he pretends he is successful.

… …

“I just finished the most wonderful story.”

Rumpel smiles, a bit of an odd expression, and Belle catches herself.  She starts nearly every conversation that way, it seems, since she gained a library and nothing to do each day but read.

“I’m sorry,” she says, laughing at herself.  “You must be so bored of me repeating all these stories by now.”

He shakes his head, his smile only spreading.  “Not at all.  On the contrary, I find it to be quite enjoyable.  Who doesn’t love to hear a good story?  Especially when it comes from such a passionate storyteller.”  He sips his wine and looks at her expectantly.  She smiles.

She tells him the story.  In truth, it is a long and intricate tale of an entire royal court.  But the part she really enjoyed – the part she retells to him – is the story of two minor characters, who encountered each other time and time again at royal balls.  And time and time again, without ever meaning to, they find themselves dancing with one another, and slowly, they fall in love on the dance floor.

“They’re not even a very important part of the story,” she tells him, pushing around the last few bites of food on her plate thoughtfully.  “But their story was my favorite part of the book.”

“Why do you suppose that is?”

She shrugs.  “It’s the most romantic part.  And I always liked dancing….  I never did it much back home, never got much of a chance.  The only balls we ever had were always so full of men just looking for a trophy wife.  They took all the fun out of it.  But once in a while, I got a chance to dance with my father, or one of the older men who were already married, and I could just relax and enjoy it.”

By now, they have both finished their dinners.  He has been watching her intently up until this point, with deep, soulful eyes, and a comfortable demeanor.  Belle purses her lips together, bites the lower one.  She considers her options, what her actions might cause, until she tells herself that the heroes in her books never win anything by over thinking these things.  She holds onto a sudden surge of courage, and stands from her chair, crossing over to him.

“Dance with me,” she insists with a smile, pulling him to his feet before he can even muster a look of surprise.  She pulls him all the way into the next room, bigger and more open, barreling over protests that he was never any good, never learned properly, that he would step on her toes.

“It’s easy, I can teach you.”  She pulls him close, and smiles brightly.  To her excitement, that seems to be enough to disarm and convince him all at once.  She takes his hand and presses it to her waist, holds his other hand in her own, and takes a deep breath.  “Now just watch my feet and do what I do.  Step to the left…  now feet together… now back…  There, see?  It’s easy.”  She meets his eyes again and smiles, and only winces a little when he steps on the tip of her toe.

She guides him through the basic steps, and when he seems to have that down, she moves in closer, and sways slowly with him.  He pulls her closer in turn.  She revels in the feeling of his hand on her waist, gentle, with just the right amount of pressure.  Even though the touch is the same, his hand around her feels so wildly different than it did that first night, when he pulled her in close to transport her away with magic.  Now the touch – and his closeness, the intimacy of it, the flutter of her heart – all are so alluring, warm, inviting.  She dances just a bit closer.

He has turned out to be so wonderfully sweet and kind, more so than she ever hoped for, more so than she ever thought she would see in anyone, least of all him.  Even though no one else seems to see it, even though decades of rumor deny its very existence, she has seen his heart, and seen the kindness in it.  Sometimes, she thinks, even he does not know what kind of man he really is, deep down.  And she finds herself undeniably drawn to that heart.

“You’ve been very good to me,” she says softly.

“You’ve been a very kind companion,” he offers with a grin.

She licks her lips nervously.  “I know you didn’t have to treat me half as well as you have.  I know our agreement didn’t require it.  I want to thank you for that.”

He watches her, searching for something in her eyes before he answers.  “You’re very welcome.”

They stop dancing, but do not let go.

“I wonder if perhaps our current circumstances might be altered slightly…” she says, just above a whisper, and the words carry a slight quiver.  “To offer something a bit more than mere companionship… something that would better meet both of our needs.”  She realizes that she has been avoiding his eyes.  She looks up shyly, biting her lip.

Rumpel reaches up to push her hair back over her shoulder.  She can’t quite decipher the look on his features.  “I think that could be arranged.”

Her heart races and her mouth goes dry.  Full of courage and desire, she rises up on her tip toes, eyes falling closed –

\- and feels her lips press against the rough leather of his collar.  She opens her eyes and pulls back, confused, and staring into a face full of unrestrained _fury_.

“Never do that again.”  His voice is even and steady, but a fire burns behind the words.

“What?  I don’t understand –”

He faces her, and she stumbles back a step at the ferocity in his glare.  “Never try to kiss me again.  Do you understand?”

Belle struggles for her voice.  “But I was only –”

“You will never kiss me,” he seethes, “and I will never kiss you.  If you ever try it again, our deal is _off_.  Do you understand me?”

He storms out of the room, and is long gone before Belle can even begin to wonder what just happened.  She stands in the middle of the empty room, just staring after him, feeling shocked, confused – and hurt.


	3. Chapter 3

Mr. Gold spends several days telling himself to let it all go, repeating the command over and over in his mind like a mantra.  When simply forcing the problem away through willpower alone does not work, he reminds himself time and time again that these things he keeps dwelling on happened in another life.  He reminds himself how long and hard he has worked to forget the many pains of that life.  He reminds himself that those things, not a one of them, would have happened on their own then, and they certainly will not happen now.

He tries, constantly, and in the busier moments of his day, he thinks he may have actually succeeded.  But in the quiet moments, the lulls of solitary silence, he cannot entirely quell the newly revived sense of longing that has plagued him ever since he laid eyes on her delicate features, deep eyes and soft hair.  She stirred something in him again, now as she did then, sensations of loneliness and hope and desire, and pain too, all mixed together and threatening to overwhelm him, no matter how hard he tries to push them from his heart.

So, naturally, he is sent reeling all over again, shocked and nervous and happy, when the bell above his shop door rings and she walks in.

He stares.  She smiles.  That perfect, sweet, genuine smile, the one he’s seen a thousand times over but is always – still – so thrilling and intoxicating and warm.  She lifts up a basket she carries, and pulls a book from it, holding him up for him to see.  She ventures to the glass countertop and sets several more books on it.

It’s enough to make him completely forget that he has been speaking with a customer this whole time.

“Mr. Gold?”

He turns back to the man at his side.  He plasters a bored smile on his face.  “My apologies, what was that again?”

Across the store, she waits patiently, studying the old antiques beneath the glass.

When he is done, and the customer leaves with a promise to return with a check later, he slowly comes to join her.  The nerves in his stomach are completely foreign to him.

“Anna.  What brings you to my shop?”

She looks up from a painted tea set in the case, smiling again.  “Well, the library is pretty empty today, so I thought I would bring you these myself.”  She pats the stack of four books beside her basket, and spreads them out on the counter.  Each one has several sticky notes peeking out from between the pages.  “I did some more research and I think these might be able to shed some light on that painting of yours.”

He takes the nearest book, and flips it open to a bookmarked page.  Skimming through, it does indeed seem like something that might be of use to him.  “This must have taken quite a while to put together,” he muses.  “That’s very kind of you.”  His voice is quieter than he means it to be, cracks a little.

“Oh, it really wasn’t much trouble at all.  Anyway, I’ve already checked these out in your name, and you can just bring them back with the others when you’re finished.”  She smiles as she picks up the empty wicker basket, and turns toward the door.

Just like that, days worth of mantras and mental discipline are undone by a simple look.  Being near her again, feeling her kindness and sweetness, all unconditional, seeing her smile, puts him under a spell, as powerful and binding as any he might cast.  All he wants, desperately, is to keep her near for just a little longer, to spend just a few moments more in her presence.

Love is, and always was, the most powerful magic, and he fears he is falling prey to its curse once again.

“Anna.”  She turns back at her name.  As he searches for words, some excuse to make her say, he discovers that curiosity has been eating away at him as well these past several days.  “The other day, with Henry’s book… you said Rumpelstiltskin wasn’t a monster deep down.  What did you mean?”

She purses her lips, as if remembering an old inside joke, and faces him fully.  “Well,” she begins, thoughtfully.  “He did plenty of bad things in the book, to be sure.  I’m not pretending he didn’t.  But he had a difficult life to begin with.”

Then she grins, and tilts her head at him.  “You know the book ends with everyone in it being cursed, right?”  He nods.  “Well, Rumpelstiltskin can see the future, among other things, and he tells Snow White and Prince Charming that their daughter will be able to break the curse one day.”

It’s strange to hear it told again, all so simple and straightforward.  “That hardly sounds like enough to redeem him of everything else.”

She shakes her head.  “But you see, after Snow and Charming went to him, the Evil Queen who enacted the curse came to him, too.  She couldn’t get the curse to work, and she needed him to tell her what she was doing wrong.  And of course, he made her agree to a price for that information.”

He shrugs.  He isn’t sure why, but something deep within him needs to hear this.  “So?”

She rolls her eyes.  “Don’t you get it?  He _knew_ the queen would come to him.  He knew he could make her agree to anything.  He could have easily made her exempt him from the curse, give him all the power and wealth and immunity he wanted.  He could have only saved himself.  He could have just told Snow and Charming that there was nothing they could do, and lived it up after the curse was in place.  But he _did_ tell them.  He told them so that the curse could be broken someday.  By doing that, he saved everyone from the curse.  Not just himself.”

He watches her closely as she speaks, the spark in her eyes and her slight smile.  For all the time he has bided, waiting and waiting for the little miracle child to come into this wretched little town, he doesn’t think he has ever wasted a single moment wondering why he did it.  Now, as he listens to Anna retell the tale, he wonders if it is simply the overly optimistic interpretation of a woman who loves stories, or if there is some thread of truth in what she says.  He doesn’t have an answer.

“And what did Belle think of him in this story?”  He shouldn’t ask, shouldn’t bring it up, shouldn’t let her rip his heart out all over again without even knowing the pain she causes.  But the words slip out before he can think to stop them, and he braces himself for her answer.

The smile she gives him is small, and sad.  “He was always kind to her.  She could tell that he had a good heart deep down, even if nobody else could.  She could see that he wasn’t as bad as everyone thought he was, as bad as _he_ thought he was.  He would get... defensive, or angry sometimes.  But only because he wasn’t used to caring about anyone but himself, let alone having them care for him, and he just didn’t know how to handle it sometimes.  He had a hard time when he fell in love with her, but he tried.”

He swallows, hard, fighting a lump in his throat.  It is difficult to hear her voice over his pounding heart and the blood rushing through his ears.  He doesn’t want to ask.  But he has to.  “And what about Belle?  Did she love him?  _Truly_ love him?”

She looks him directly in the eyes.  She smiles slowly, a mix of happiness and sorrow in her expression.  “Yes, she did.”

Gold can think of nothing more to say, and so she turns and heads to the door once again.  When it closes behind her, she smiles at him through the window and waves goodbye.  He sighs, his body suddenly feeling as heavy as his heart.  He soon finds himself in the back office, slumped in his desk chair and rubbing his brow.

For the first time in a long, long time – for as long as he can remember, as they always say in Storybrooke – he feels confused beyond salvation.  He has absolutely no idea what he is supposed to think, or feel, or do.  In one overwhelming wave, emotions that he has not felt in a lifetime wash over him again, pulling him down into their depths, and he is sure they will drown him.  For all of this lost time, it is as if all of it happened yesterday.

She makes his heart ache and race at the same time.  Simply being close to her, seeing her lovely eyes, her sweet smile, her soft hair, watching her be so kind and sweet and gentle, loving…  He didn’t think it was possible to forget just how pure and beautiful her heart is, and yet as he sits alone in his office, he knows that is exactly what he has done.  And now, he remembers more clearly and acutely than ever before.  And try as he might to deny it, pretend it away, believe that it died back then, or died with the curse, or died in the endless years since, the simple, painful, wonderful, absolute truth is that he loves this woman.  He loves her.  He loves her, he loves her, he loves her.  He loves her as much now as he did so long ago, as much as he has in all the years since, deep down in his heart where even he did not know the emotion still lived.

He loves her.

And now to hear her speak of it, to hear her tell him from a story book that she – that _Belle_ – truly loved Rumpelstiltskin all along, that it was never a ruse, nor a mistake, nor a way to cope, that she loved him in the truest and most real sense of the word, is enough to shatter him.

He tries to remind himself that there are still questions unanswered.  He tries to tell himself that to Anna these are nothing but stories, works of fiction, beloved though they may be.  He tries to tell himself that if she knew the truth behind the pages she would feel quite differently.

But the book… Henry’s book.  Even Gold does not know how it came into being.  But he has seen it, held it, read some of it with his own eyes, and felt the magic within it.  Wherever it came from, it is the truth.  The stories it tells are as they truly happened.  And so, if the book says that the Beauty truly did love the Beast… Well.

He wonders if he ever truly knew what was in her heart to begin with.


	4. Chapter 4

Belle says almost nothing at dinner the next two nights.  She avoids encountering Rumpelstiltskin in the hallways at all costs.  She reads in her bedroom, lest he decide he need some spellbook out of the library.

She thought – _hoped_ , maybe – that he might have some small feelings for her in return, that he might find something pleasing in her.  She wouldn’t have even minded if it were only for her looks.  She only wanted something, _something_ from him in return, and to be pushed away so unexpectedly, especially after he seemed to be saying he shared her desires…

She tries and tries and tries to understand, but as much as she dwells on it, she finds herself no closer to an answer.

After another dinner spent in silence and avoidance, she changes into her nightgown.  She stares at her reflection as she stands before the mirror, slowly brushing out her hair.  When she hears a knock on the door, she doesn’t move, doesn’t speak.  The door opens anyway.  He comes in, stands where she can see him in the mirror, but not too close.  She continues brushing.

“You’ve been very quiet the last several days.”

“I’ve had little to say.”  She isn’t angry, her words carry no spite.  She is only honest, and, if anything, feels more than a little hurt.

Rumpel fidgets and stares down at his hands.  It’s unlike him.  “I do apologize for being so harsh with you.”

She glances up at him in the mirror then back at nothing.  She brushes still.  “There’s no need to apologize,” she says softly.  “I overstepped my bounds and you made your feelings quite clear.”

He takes exactly two steps toward her.  “I said only that you may not kiss me.  I said nothing of anything else.”

Her hands slow in her hair.  She glances at him again, feeling her cheeks flush and her heart flutter.  “What exactly are you proposing?”

He shrugs.  “You tell me, dearie.  It was your idea after all.  Though, I can’t imagine what a shy, unmarried woman like you could have in mind.”

Belle’s heart is racing now, and a very pleasant warmth spreads through her chest.  She swallows a lump from her throat, and her voice comes out as a squeak.  “You can learn a lot by reading books.”

“And you think that’s what you want?”  His voice sends a wonderful shiver through her body.

“I _know_ what I want,” she says with absolute conviction, holding his eyes in the mirror.  “And I know _who_ I want.”

He moves then, his boots sounding soft footfalls on the rug, the sound of her heart, but much slower.  Her hands are still in her hair, frozen, motionless, when he stops, just inches behind her.  If she leaned back, just the tiniest bit, his body would press against hers.  He takes the brush from her hand, his fingertips touching hers, and sets it down on the vanity.  He takes her hair and pulls it behind her shoulder, caressing her neck as he goes.  Her breath comes in little gasps as he tugs at the collar of her night dress, just a little, just enough to expose the skin of her neck and shoulders, and then he kisses her there.

Her eyes fall shut and she sighs.  The warmth in her chest – the warmth of his lips – spreads through her body and pools between her legs.  She tilts her head a little, giving him more space, and he presses his lips just a little further down.  His hands come to her hips and that wonderful heat flares at her core, all full of desire and excitement.  A third kiss, at the bend between neck and shoulder, and she braces her hands on the vanity.  Tendrils of pleasure run through her, like phantom fingers between her thighs, growing stronger and more insistent.  She moans softly, her lips pursed tight, and as his lips move again, high on the back of her shoulder this time, the phantom pleasure rises again.  She realizes, suddenly, that it is not her body’s own desire creating the sensations, as they grow stronger still, like real hands inside her, that _he_ is doing this to her – _for_ her – with some wonderful kind of magic, and his name slips from her lips as a whisper.  And he keeps going, a little more, and a little more, and her legs begin to shake, her fingers gripping at the edge of the vanity, all of it hot and wonderful and perfect –

And as quickly as it began, the magic subsides, the phantom fingers retreat.  Belle whimpers, desperate to have the sensations back.  She opens her eyes, the lids heavy.  Rumpel stares at her in the mirror, his eyes dark and his breath short.  His fingers squeeze her hips, then let go.

“Lie down on the bed.”

… …

He steps back out of her space, watches her stand on shaking legs.  Her eyes are wide and nearly black when she looks at him, her face and neck and chest flushed pink.  She gets on the bed, her silk night dress spilling over the curves of her body.  She lies back against the pillows.  He pulls the vanity chair close to the bed, and sits hunched over, elbows on his knees.  He starts again.

A sweet, agonizing moan escapes her lips, and her face contorts in ecstasy as he intensifies the pleasure.  The sight of her sends a jolt of pleasure through his body as well.  He’s already hard, and the tight leather of his pants is doing him no favors but he doesn’t move a muscle.  He focuses solely on her, on conjuring the magic that will make her whimper and gasp and sigh incoherent words of pleasure.  But it is not hard to focus on her – she looks so utterly gorgeous like this, and he wants to burn the sight into his memory.

She clutches at the fabric of her bedspread and her night dress as she writhes on the bed, desperate for something to hold onto and keep her grounded.  She arches her back, and the silk clings to her breasts, perfect and small, her nipples making small shadows on the fabric.  Her hands move with her body, and she touches herself, her belly and thighs and chest, gently squeezing her breasts.

He bites a knuckle and squeezes his eyes shut, concentrating, focusing on the spell to pleasure her, and not on the lust now coursing through his veins or the way his cock throbs at the sound of every moan and whimper.

He works the magic harder and faster now, rhythmic and methodical and soon, she’s grasping the blanket beneath her with white knuckles.  Every muscle in her body winds tighter and tighter, she gasps for every breath, and he watches the perfect, gorgeous expression of sweet agony as he drives her closer and closer and closer to her end.  When she comes, her whole body breaks, arching like a bow, and she lets out a cry unlike any he’s ever heard.

He makes her come three times that night.  And again the next night, and most nights after.

He sits and watches, always, caressing and touching and kissing just a bit – never on her lips – at the beginning, and then playing her like an instrument from his place beside the bed.  Not long after they begin, without warning, once she sat on the bed, she stripped herself of her night dress, revealing soft, pink, perfect skin.  She leaves herself bare for him to see, and he can barely handle the sight of her, free and uninhibited and _beautiful_.  He struggles each night to control his desire, to fight the urge to crawl atop the bed with her, to kiss every inch of her and feel the softness of her beneath his hands.  But he doesn’t – can’t – he knows what she would think to see him and feel him and be so close, knows she would be frightened at best and repulsed at worst.  So he resists his own desires as he watches, focusing on hers, watching her writhe and moan and come apart.  And afterwards, when she is spent, breathing hard against the pillows with a fine layer of sweat over her flushed skin, he takes the memory of her and comes, alone, in his own chambers.


	5. Chapter 5

 Belle comes in on a sunny afternoon, as he sits and works at his spinning wheel.  She smiles briefly when he looks up, but pays him little mind as she pulls a chair into the light streaming through the window.  She sits, and cracks open her book, and he returns to the wheel.

He watches her occasionally, when he reaches down to the basket for more straw.  He watches her slender fingers turn a page, so carefully, admires the flesh and cleavage her dress reveals.  He looks back to his wheel before she notices.  And maybe, once or twice, during the few hours they spend like this, he thinks he sees her watching him from the corner of her eye, before her gaze darts back to her book.

Later, when the sun has shifted and only falls across half of Belle’s chair, he finishes a spool, wound thick with gold thread, and stands to put it with all the rest.  As he walks toward the high glass cupboard, pulls open the large drawer beneath, glimmering with golden spools, he hears Belle set her books down, and her footsteps come toward him.

“Rumpel?” she calls, a bemused tone in her voice.

It makes him smile.  He smiles a lot these days.  “Yes, dearie?”

“I’ve been thinking about our new arrangement.”  She traces a long finger down the wood of the cabinet, separating the panes of glass.

“Oh?” he asks, watching the light pressure of her fingertip.  “What about it?”  He places the new spool in the drawer, and shuts it.  He faces her.

“Well,” she muses, taking a half-step closer to him.  “Me alone in my bed with you sitting halfway across the room is not quite what I had in mind.”

He swallows a lump in his throat, afraid of what she might be trying to say.  “Am I… am I not satisfying your needs, my dear?”

She smiles and shakes her head.  “Oh you are,” she murmurs, stepping closer so he can hear, “very much so.”  Stepping much closer.

The lump in his throat is persistent, won’t go away, and his heart is pounding in his chest.  She steps closer, right in front of him, and he doesn’t think he could move away even if he wanted to.  He’s staring at her face, can’t see her hands, but he feels light pressure at the tugging at the lacings of his pants.

Her voice is soft, gentle, musical.  How very easy it would be, for her to enchant a man with that voice.  Perhaps she already has.  “But even with as much as you do for me, I cannot help but think of you, Rumpelstiltskin.”  She pulls the lacings loose.  “Surely you must have needs as well.”

He hadn’t even realized he was hard.  But sure enough, she slips those delicate fingers of hers into his pants, and works his erection free of the clothing.

A most undignified little noise slips past the lump in his throat.  He can’t take his eyes off of her, can’t move, can do nothing but stand there.  Completely at her mercy.

She bites her bottom lip, nervously, hesitantly.  But her eyes are filled with boldness and courage, and she wraps both hands around his length, and moves.

His eye slam shut and he takes a shaky breath.  His hands move of their own volition, gripping her arms, and he pulls her closer, as close as he can get her.  With a little hum, she leans in and presses her lips to his neck.  She kisses him gently, slowly, matching the rhythm of, up and down, slow and gentle.  She flicks her tongue out, right against his racing pulse.  He tightens his grip on her arms, and blessedly, she understands the message.

Belle wraps her fingers tighter around his erection, gives more pressure as she runs her fingers up and down the length of his shaft.  She has small hands and small fingers, yet she seems to know just what to do with them, sliding along the full length of his shaft, fingertips caressing the head.  Between her hands and her lips against his neck, she has his heart racing and his breathing labored and ragged in no time.  She grips harder, moves faster, and everything else around him fades away until there is only Belle and her perfect hands.  He is so full of pent up lust from watching her come apart night after night, so much desire burning in his blood, that it doesn’t take long at all before he’s teetering on the edge.  And Belle, somehow, senses it, and performs some magic with those perfect hands, and he comes, hard.

When it’s over, he’s panting and struggling to catch his breath, his face buried in her hair.  He loosens his grip on her arms, no longer deathly tight.  She makes a few last, slow strokes to bring him down gently.  Slowly, he opens his eyes, and hears a soft lilting laugh.

“I thought so.”

That night she steps backwards towards her bed, tugging at his clothes as she goes.  He’s hesitant, unsure, afraid of how this might go.  With a flick of his fingers, he snuffs all but a few of the candles and lamps in her room, before she can say anything about it.  He fears she’ll take one look at him, see the sickly gray skin of his face cover his whole body, see the marks of dark magic in his flesh, and banish him from her bed, refuse to let him near her again.  But she pulls him along so insistently, and her fingers slide along his limbs so gently as she pulls away his leathers, and the silk shirt beneath.  She’s smiling, even though he’s sure she can see everything of his bare chest in the dimness, and she’s so beautiful and sweet and he follows her to the bed in spite of himself.  She makes quick work of the rest of his clothes, and pulls him to her to help with the layers of her own.

She climbs onto the bed, all bare and beautiful and soft, and bids him to join her with a hand on his arm.  She kneels in front of him, and he has no earthly clue what to do or how to start, but Belle only leans in and kisses his throat.  She lays her hands on his shoulders and runs them down his body, over his chest and stomach, weaving little patterns with her fingertips.  He flinches at the sensation.  She kisses his chest.  She takes his hands in hers, shaking, and places one against her thigh – soft and supple – and brings the other to her breast.  She holds his hand there, squeezing his fingers, and when he presses his hand against her flesh, she sighs.

He can barely breathe, his chest tight with desire and anxiety, and it takes all the focus he can muster to conjure the magic to pleasure her.  He sends the first wave of pleasure through her, and she leans against him, her hands caressing every part of his body at once.  The sensation is nothing short of exquisite, and he closes his eyes to savor it.

He pleasures her with his spells as he has for so many nights now, but this time he gives in to his own desires, hovering over her as she moves on the bed, kissing and touching every inch of her as he pleases. And her skin is so wonderfully soft beneath his hands, infinitely softer than he ever imagined.  She is so very, very warm.  The taste of her skin as he kisses her is like salt and spice on his tongue.  He savors every last sensation, committing them to memory.  And Belle, in turn, touches him, soft and firm, gentle and fierce.  She winds her fingers through the hair at the back of his neck, runs her fingers up and down his spine, kisses him everywhere she can reach and nips lightly at his skin.  This, too, he savors.

 He drives her on relentlessly, letting the pleasure build and build in her core until she’s near bursting.  He is kneeling over her legs, touching her hips and thighs, preparing to make her come, when she sits up with a jolt, grabs his shoulders, whispers feverishly in his ear.  “Stop, _stop_ –”

And he’s afraid, all in an instant, that he’s done something wrong, that she’s changed her mind, that she doesn’t want him –

But she nuzzles his neck, kisses his jaw, panting for breath.  And she breathes in his ear, “I want you inside me.”  The words sound so foreign and impossible, but they send the most delicious shiver of pleasure through him nonetheless.  “ _Please_.”

And whatever else is running through his mind, he cannot resist, cannot say no to her.  She lies back and pulls him with her, kissing his chest.  She spreads her legs, cradles him against her hips, and with little fumbling – how many eons has it been since he’s done this? – he’s inside her.

She’s hot and wet and wonderful, and it is a struggle to breathe and move, to think what to do next.  Belle rolls her hips against him and moans, and the sound so close in his ear is oh so much more appealing than hearing it from across the room.  Finally, he moves.

He uses the spells, still, lest his body not have what it takes.  Soon, her entire body tightens like a bow string, with her legs wrapped high around his waist, her fingers digging into his back and shoulders, her forehead pressed against his shoulder.  He moves, in whatever ways feel natural, and focuses on her sounds, her whimpers and moans and gasps and sighs.  And then, she whispers her name as she comes, her body spasming against him, inside and out, and he falls apart right along with her.

When he can think again, she lies limp and breathless beneath him.  He lies on top of her, his head resting upon her chest.  He can hear the beat of her racing heart as it gradually slows.

It is the first night of many they share in her bed.

… …

For many months, as she pulls him into her bed at night, touches him, but never gives a true kiss, and spends her days near him, her feelings only grow.  Far more than their intimacy – though that certainly does not diminish her opinion of him – she comes to care for him, miss him, enjoy his company, more and more and more.  Eventually, it comes to the point where she must admit it to herself.  In spite of all the odds against it, all his faults and flaws, their circumstances, who he is – the simple truth is that she has fallen in love with him.

And where she once thought he harbored no feelings for her, she has come to understand him.  She understands now why he was so reluctant to let her touch him, in innocence or intimacy, why he was so nervous and hesitant when he first joined her in her bed, why he _still_ refuses to kiss her on the lips.  She understands now what so many decades of dark magic and trickery and allowing no one to get too close have done to him.  She understands now that he does not see himself as she does, that he does not see himself as he truly is, that he is insecure, and believes that no good can come of allowing anyone to care for him.  She thinks, perhaps, he may be afraid, even now, to let himself care for her.

She understands now.  He truly sees himself as nothing but a monstrous beast.

And when Belle thinks of all this, she, too, becomes afraid of the consequences of sharing her heart with him.  She fears he will not believe her, that he won’t want to hear it.  She is afraid he will shut her out again, as he did the night they danced and she first tried to kiss him.  She is afraid that he will not accept her love.

So she keeps the truth to herself, debating back and forth for weeks.  She changes her mind over and over, making every argument of pro and con.  She nearly tells him in spite of herself a hundred times or more – at dinner, as they sit quietly together, in bed as he drives her to the brink of an orgasm, or in its aftermath.  And each time, when nerves or sense get the better of her, she decides all over again that it’s for the best.

But time goes on, and her heart grows heavy with words unspoken, and one day, her fears and insecurities and logic all together are no longer enough to overwhelm her heart into silence.

She finds him in his work room, sitting amidst his collection of so many things, spinning away at his wheel.  She stares from the doorway, anxiety and nerves tightening on her pounding heart.  She waits, working up the courage, talking herself into it – now or never – thinking of what she will say, forcing her feet not to carry her backwards –

And then, as if he can hear her thundering heart, he glances up, and smiles.

Her feet carry her forward.

He picks up the now finished spool of gold thread and carries it to a table across the room.  When she joins him, standing close behind him, he picks up something else on the table, and tells her something about it.  She doesn’t pay attention.  She just lets the sound of his voice slowly, slowly return her heartbeat to normal, follows him as he moves to the shelf and tells her about something there, no doubt related to the first.  She lets the words wash over her, taking slow, deep breaths all the while.  Eventually, he turns to her, and she smiles.

“Of course all that must be terribly boring to you, I’m sure.”

She smiles in return, and shakes her head.  “If you can put up with me babbling about books day in and day out, I can certainly stand to listen to you.”  She tries to look him in the eyes, but keeps staring down at her hands, fidgeting and restless.  Her heart starts fluttering again.

“What is it?” he asks, brow furrowing as he strokes her hair gently.

Now or never, now or never, _now or never_ – She takes a deep breath, and seizes one tiny flicker of courage, and looks him in the eye.  “I love you.”

His eyes narrow, and darken, and he walks away, his shoulder barely brushing hers.

Her mind fumbles and trips over itself for several seconds, and she reminds herself that she knew this could happen.  She follows him, runs in front of him and catches his arms.  She rubs her thumbs gently over his sleeves, and makes him look at her.  “Rumpel, I love you.”  She tries not to let her voice break, or eyes water.  She isn’t sure if she succeeds.

“No, you don’t.”

“Of _course_ I do.”  She knows she sounds desperate now.  He won’t look at her, the lines in his face deepening, and his entire body becomes more and more tense by the second.  He pulls away from her with a rough jolt.  Now he does look at her, and his eyes burn with rage.

“I don’t know what kind of cruel game you’re playing at, or what pathetic delusions your insipid books have put in your head, but you had better stop now, or you’ll regret it.”

Belle stands in stunned silence, afraid her legs will give out on her, fighting back the tears stinging her eyes.  She tries to stay calm, tries to tell herself that everything is okay – but she never expected this, and no platitudes can tell her how to fix it.

He moves away again, and again, she follows, puts her hands on his shoulders.  She nearly begs.  “I’m not – I mean it!  I do love you!  I do –”  She moves her hands up to his face, cupping his jaw, and leans up, hoping against hope that action will convince him as her words cannot.

Her eyes are closed when he wretches her away, his grip painful on her arms, shaking her with a brutal force he has never shown her before.  His scream is loud, and pained, and terrifying.  “ _No one could ever, ever love me!_ ”

She pulls away, he lets go, and she stumbles backward until she trips over her skirt and lands hard on the floor, shocked and terrified with tears streaming down her face.  His entire body radiates with fury, she has never seen him like this before, and she is afraid and confused and devastated and terrified, and she runs.

She runs to her room, takes her cloak, her basket, a small purse with coins, and the nearest book sitting on her night table.  And she runs.  Runs with anger and sorrow and pain, out the castle and into the woods, runs and runs and runs until her lungs burn as much as her heart.

… …

He watches her flee from him, run from the hideous monster.  He watches through the window as she flees towards the forest, and disappears.  He is still shaking as he drops down to the floor, his back against the wall.  Save for the trembling, which only subsides slowly over hours, he does not move.  He only sits, as a dead man, staring into the growing darkness as night consumes the world.

He is a fool.  An absolute fool.  He let his temper flare, showed her the kind of man he really is, the truth of him that she refused to see, unleashed the full force of his fury onto her, and then she ran, ran away in fear as they all eventually do.  And for that he hates himself.

He wonders, just for a moment, if perhaps her words were true, if she had somehow come to love him.  She is, after all, so wonderfully, beautifully kind, loving, and pure, and has such a good heart.  If ever anyone could manage to love him, if anyone could find some way to love the beastly exterior and the monster inside, it would be her, sweet, kind, perfect Belle.

But then, he is only being foolish again.  How could anyone so beautiful and pure ever love something as terrible as him?  Impossible.

She was only kidding herself.  Perhaps she was deluded by loneliness, confused by so many intimate pleasures.  Perhaps for all her desire for adventure, she is still naïve, and has read far too many love stories to know what real love is, and that she did not feel it for him.

But still, he wonders, if he had not lost his temper, not treated her so horribly, so monstrously, perhaps she might have stayed.  Perhaps she might have held onto her delusion of love, for a time at least, and he would have had her companionship for a while longer, wonderful and hollow though it would be.

It is then, sitting in the darkness with only a hint of moonlight, still just where he had fallen hours and hours ago, that he wonders for the first time if he loves Belle.  He wonders if, perhaps, that is why he now feels so full of sorrow, regret, loneliness, if that is why he sits here, mourning her loss as if she were slain in front of him.  He doesn’t even know if he is capable of love, if his cold, dark, cruel heart even has the capacity for such a thing.  Even if he is capable, though, he is certain he doesn’t deserve to feel love, let alone receive it in return from someone as pure as Belle.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please bear in mind that I planned this fic before the episode aired, and before the previews were released, and I did not alter it once they eventually did come out. When I planned this, I did not think of being the Dark One as a curse, and did not think that would be what Regina was referring to.
> 
> This is the final chapter of this fic. Since it is now vastly AU, I most likely will not be writing any other sequels or mini-ficlets in this same AU. If I did, however (and don’t go getting your hopes up here) I would post them as a separate story. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

Even with his new realization, feeling what he feels, all over again, Gold tries not to dwell for the next few days.  If anything, he has never been able to think clearly when clouded by emotions, especially with ones as confusing and tumultuous as those Anna stirs within him.  He does his level best to let his mind clear, telling himself not to do anything rash until he can really think things through.

But still, in quiet moments, his heart longs for her.  He longs to pull her close, tell her how desperately he loves her, kiss her neck and thread his fingers in her hair.  And he wonders, too.  Wonders how, if things were so wonderful, they might have turned out so terrible in the end.

So, when he has scoured the books she gave him – and he tells himself he _cannot_ feel her energy where she held them in her hands – and has the information he needs, he is far more eager than he should be                           to return them to her.  So, nervous with anticipation, he stuffs the books into an old paper bag, locks up the shop, and sets out towards the library.

The bell above the front door startles him as he enters.  He feels like a fool for being so jumpy and nervous, for being so excited, like some foolish teenager, full of longing and desire.  He does not see her right away, and so goes wandering through the rows of shelves, searching.  Perhaps unsurprisingly, it is she who finds him.

“Were the books helpful?” she asks, taking the heavy bag from him.

“Yes.  Quite.  I wanted to say thank you, again, for all your help.  It made all the difference.”

“You’re welcome.  I’m always happy to help.”  She smiles at him.  She turns and heads toward the stairs, books in tow, to re-shelve them.

Gold takes a deep, shaking breath, swallows a lump from his throat.  He follows her.  “I was wondering,” he says, reaching the top stair, “about something else as well.”

“Oh?”  She raises an eyebrow.  Gold tries not to stare.

“About Belle and Rumpelstiltskin, actually.”  He forces his voice to stay steady, preparing himself for whatever answer he may receive.  “How does their story end?  You said it had a very sad ending, but they were both in love.  What happened?”

Her smile now is weak and full of sorrow, and she sighs heavily.  She opens her mouth to speak, but after several attempts, no words come out.  She sighs again, shaking this time, as though she might cry.  He grips the handle of his cane until his knuckles are white, to keep from reaching out and brushing her face.

“Sorry,” she murmurs, avoiding looking at him.  “That story just always gets to me. I don’t know why.  I get so overinvested in books and these character’s lives.  It’s kind of ridiculous.”  She laughs at herself.  “Sometimes I think I should just start acting like a normal person, make my life a lot easier.”

“Why on earth would you want to do that?” he asks with absolute sincerity.  He hasn’t heard his own voice carry such tenderness in many years.  She looks at him, unguarded, unafraid, like no one else ever does, and her eyes seem to bore right through him.  “It’s what makes you who you are.”

She grins sheepishly.  “Yeah, well, everybody in town thinks it’s pretty weird.”

“I think it’s wonderful.”

Her cheeks flush pink, and she stares at the ground.  She hugs the book in her hands to her chest.

“Tell me the end of the story,” he says gently.

… …

Belle walks until just before nightfall.  She counts herself lucky when she finds an inn along the side of the road, and she spends the night, her cloak draped over the bed for extra warmth.  She tries to read by the candlelight, but she can’t focus enough to read even a full page before the candle burns down, and she resigns herself to a fitful sleep.

As she wakes again and again in the night, tossing and turning, she tries to decide what to do. 

She doesn’t intend to leave him.  Not forever.  Partly, she does not want to go back on her contract, and put her town in the path of danger once again.  But more so, she loves him too much to bear the thought of leaving.  She only needs some time to herself.  Time to think.

She can’t understand how someone could be so afraid of loving and receiving love, even someone like Rumpel, who has done so many bad things for so long.  She doesn’t understand how he can be so utterly, totally blind to the goodness and kindness in his own heart, when it is so plainly obvious to her.  She knows that few other people can see it, but she didn’t think he would be equally oblivious.  It hurts her to see him so afraid and hopeless, leaves an ache deep in her heart.  Even now, she doubts only briefly that he loves her in return, or at the very least cares for her very deeply.

As she falls back asleep again, she wonders what kind of horrors in his life could cause such devastating fear and hopelessness in him.

… …

In the morning, Belle wakes, still tired.  She pays the proprietor of the inn, and joins the simple breakfast of bread and stew.  Then she sets out on the trail, and simply walks.

She walks for hours in no particular direction, never encountering another soul, until, sometime in the early afternoon, she hears the neighing of horses and the clatter of wheels behind her.  She turns back to find a cavalry of ebony black horses, pulling a carriage and knights to match.  The sight is imposing and radiates power, and on another day, Belle might watch it pass in rapt fascination, wondering what grand royal or dignitary might be riding inside, what kingdom they might be travelling to and why, letting herself imagine that they rode straight out of one of her books.  But today, the sight holds no interest for her, not in the face of her inner turmoil, and so she simply moves to the side of the path and continues on.

She barely notices when the cavalry pulls to a stop beside her, until a woman’s voice calls to her.

“My goodness, child!”  Belle turns, and finds an elegant woman, smiling out at her from the open carriage door.  “You’re the first soul we’ve passed in hours.  What on earth are you doing all the way out here?”

“I-I’m just traveling,” Belle says quietly, and looks toward the path.

The woman looks at her more intently now.  “My dear, are you all right?  You look positively consumed by despair.”

Belle frowns.  Is it really that obvious?  The woman steps out of the carriage, dressed all in black, ass all the rest, and comes over to Belle.  She feels bare and small under the other woman’s intense scrutiny.  “I’m fine,” Belle squeaks out.

The woman tilts her head, and before Belle realizes what’s happening, the woman puts an arm around her shoulders and starts walking, pulling her along.  “My dear, it’s not good to keep these things bottled up inside.  Painful emotions only fester and get worse if they are not dealt with.  Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind?  Perhaps it will help you clear your head and feel better.”

Suddenly, letting this stranger help lighten her heavy heart doesn’t sound like such a bad idea.  The more she thinks on it, in fact, the more desperate she feels for a sympathetic ear.  “Well…”  She sighs heavily, and the woman squeezes her shoulders.  “I made a deal with a man some time ago.”  She supposes it is best not to use his real name, lest his reputation cloud the woman’s judgment.  “In exchange for defending my home town from a war, I had to live with him as his companion.”

“I see, and now you’re running away from the brute?”

“No, no!”  Belle looks up at the woman, hurt by the very suggestion.  “It’s not like that.  I just… I only needed a day or two to myself to think.  I’m going back, I’m just… I’m not sure what to do.  And he’s not a brute, he’s very kind and sweet.”

They walk in silence for a few steps before the woman speaks.  “And you have come to care for him?”

“Yes,” Belle whispers.

“And he for you?”

Belle sighs.  “I _thought_ he did… I was _sure_ he must have some feelings for me, but when I tried to tell him… he would have none of it.  It’s as if…”  She thinks, searching for the right words to explain the darkness in him that worries her so.  “It’s as if something _evil_ has taken root in him.”

Without warning, the woman stops walking.

“What?”

She turns to Belle, eyeing her suspiciously.  “Did he tell you that no one could ever love him?”

“Yes!”

The woman’s eyes darken.  “Oh, dear.  That sounds precisely like a particular curse I know of.  It’s exceedingly rare, only a handful of people in the land would even know how to cast it.”

Belle’s heart seizes with fear, and she struggles to find her voice.  “What – what does it do?”

“Oh, it’s a most vile and terrible curse.  It slowly eats away at its victim’s heart until they are hopeless and hollow inside.”

Belle’s heart feels as if it is nearly ripped from her chest, and she has to fight back tears at the thought of Rumpel suffering that fate.  “That’s awful!”  She has to fight through the fear squeezing at her chest to speak.  “But – but I can’t let that happen to him!  I know he has a good heart, I know it!  Please, you must know some way to break it, to save him?”

The woman looks down at Belle, examining her face and eyes with extreme care, for what feels like forever.  Finally, she speaks again.  “Do you love this man?  _Truly_ love him?”

“Yes.”  She nods fiercely.

She leans closer.  “If you truly love this man, with all your heart, then you can save him.”  She smiles.  “True love’s kiss will break _any_ curse.”

Belle’s body feels as though she could simply collapse on the spot with relief, but her heart barely lets her speak a sincere “Thank you” to the woman before she sets off in the other direction, running.

Long after she is out of earshot, the woman smiles wickedly.  “You’re very welcome my dear.”

… …

Belle reaches the castle not long after nightfall.  She sets her things down just inside the door, and goes looking for him.  No lights or torches are lit anywhere except the dining hall, where she sees only a faint sliver of light coming out under the door.  She pushes it open slowly, silently, and peeks in.  He sits at his wheel, with his shoulders slumped.  He spins his straw, but so very, painfully slowly.  She wonders if he ever left this room.

She watches him, hiding behind the door, afraid.  Afraid of how he’ll react to her, afraid of what he might do or say – afraid that she won’t be able to save him.  She spent the entire walk back praying and praying that his curse truly can be broken.  Still without making a sound, she slips through the door, takes a deep breath, full of courage, and speaks his name.

She thinks for a moment that he does not hear her.  But as she prepares to speak again, louder, his fingers stop the wheel, and he turns to her.  She cannot read the look on his face, but his voice is shocked.  “Belle… you came back…”

She grins a little, and nods, and makes her way across the room.  He stands, nearly tripping over his chair.  She still prays in the back of her mind, that this will work, that he will even let her try.  She watches as he tries to come up with something to say, sees his mind spinning behind his eyes, but in the end, he can only manage to whisper, “Why?”

She licks her lips nervously.  There really is only one answer to that question.  “Because I love you.”

He shuts his eyes, as in pain.  “Belle –”

But she steps forward, presses her fingertips to his lips before he can finish.  She shushes him gently.  “I love you,” she murmurs.  “I am _in_ love with you.  I know you think that can’t be true, but it is.”  She moves her hand to cup the side of his face, and he stays silent.  “I can see the goodness in your heart.  I see how kind and sweet you are with me.  And I know that deep down you feel the same way.”

He says her name in a sigh.  She steps closer, and moves her hand down to his chest.  She presses down, and she can feel his heart.

“I love you, Rumpelstiltskin.”

She smiles, gently, lovingly, and leans in close.  He doesn’t move away, doesn’t shout, doesn’t say a word.  He lets her come close, even leans in the tiniest bit, and she kisses him.  She pours every last bit of love she feels into that kiss, every prayer, and she savors it.

She pulls away, eventually, and he sighs – blissfully, almost.  She hopes that is the sign that it worked, that she saved him, that the curse is broken, and his heart can heal.

“There,” she whispers.  “See?  Now do you believe that I love you?”

He doesn’t answer.  He only stares into her eyes for the longest time before bringing a hand to her cheek.  He only rubs his thumb back and forth across her cheek, and finally pulls her close against him, and kisses her again.

When they fall into bed that night, for the first time, it truly feels as if they are making love.  Once there were walls between them, and he always kept her at arms’ distance no matter how close he held her.  She had to remind herself constantly not to kiss him on the lips, and came so close a hundred times anyway, in spite of herself.  But now – as if by magic, by a broken curse – all of that is gone, and he lays his soul bare to her.

That night, they do not spend their entire time together locked in a passionate kiss.  Their lips wander elsewhere, and nowhere, wherever they please.  But the freedom to kiss him, to show him how she truly feels, whenever she pleases, and the thrill of butterflies in her heart when he kisses her, is exhilarating.  He doesn’t say the words that night, but by the end, when they’re exhausted and breathless and lying tangled up in one another, she knows beyond all doubt that he loves her.

… …

Belle wakes slowly in the morning, letting her mind come out of some vague and pleasant dream.  In the early dawn light, she finds Rumpel on the other side of the bed, sleeping soundly against her pillow.  This is the first time he has ever slept the night in her bed, the first time she has ever woken beside him.  His face is perfectly serene, and even in sleep, she thinks he looks happy.  She finds the sight of him quite pleasing.

She could get used to waking up like this.

For now though, she is hungry.  She slips out of the bed, careful not to wake him.  The air on her bare skin is cold, and she shivers as she pulls a night dress out of the dresser drawer.  She steps into her slippers and pulls on her warm robe, and heads to the door.  She looks to him once more as she pulls the door closed behind her.

She stretches as she walks down the hall, a smile painted on her face.  Her heart is still filled with butterflies, soft and wonderful, and the words _I love you_ threaten to spill from her lips, even though he is nowhere near.

She hears quick, quiet footsteps behind her, and she is sure Rumpel will try to surprise her, until dark fabric obscures her vision, and one massive arm surrounds her, and another clamps down over her scream.

... …

He awakens in a bed not his own, unfamiliar until he smells a subtle, pleasant scent, and memories of the night before return to him.  He smiles, and opens his eyes.  The other side of the bed is empty, but still holds a trace of warmth.  Her robe is missing from its usual hook.

He sits up, and gets out of bed, padding across the cool marble floors to his own room.  As he fishes clothes from his wardrobe and dresses, he suspects she must be in the kitchen, putting something together.  He imagines he might come up behind her, wrap his arms around her waist and pull her back against him as she cooks.  Yes, rather a good idea, that.

Once he’s dressed, he makes his way to the kitchen only to find it empty and dark, no fire burning in the stove.  He _Hmms_ quietly, and moves on to the work room.  Perhaps she is reading in the warm morning light.

The work room, too, is empty.

In the vast library, he calls her name, and it echoes off the walls, and then silence.  Old, familiar fears slither into his heart, clenching and poisoning as he goes to another room, and another, whispering _She’s gone_ and _She hates you_ and _No one could ever love a monster_ , and for all that he tries to drown them out as he yells her name, the whisper still, relentless.

As he becomes more and more frantic now, running and yelling through hallways and gardens and all the way out past the front gates, the horrible fears sink into his gut, that it was never love, that she never meant it, that it was some cruel trick, that for all he saw and felt and wanted to believe, none of it was ever real.

Outside the gates, staring down a long, empty pathway, the scream of her name is primal, desperate and devastated.

“What in God’s name are you shouting for?”

He startles, and turns to find an old, shriveled hag of a woman standing there.  She carries a basket full of blood-red apples under her arm, no doubt taking them to the market in town.

He stares at her, his heart racing.  “Have you seen a woman?”

“Here?” she asks, her voice an old squawk.  “No.  Although… come to think of it, I did encounter a rather lovely young lady on the road just after dawn, not long ago.”

Rumpelstiltskin’s heart cracks.

“She was positively frantic, still wearing her night clothes, in fact.  I tried to ask if I could help her in any way, but she just kept saying that she had made a horrible mistake and she had to get away as quickly as possible.  Then she kept running.  Is that who you were looking for?”

Rumpelstiltskin’s heart shatters, sharp pieces crumbling and stabbing him from the inside out.

The old woman looks him over.  “Hm.  Of course she was.  Hardly a surprise, considering the circumstances.” 

“What the hell do you know of it?” he barks.

“Your reputation precedes you, Rumpelstiltskin,” she answers, smirking cruelly.  “Are you really so surprised that your prisoner would try to run away from a monster like you?”

The shards of his heart bleed, because he knows every word is true.  “She wasn’t my prisoner.”  But the words come out in a half-hearted whisper.

“No?” the woman taunts, as if she takes pleasure in his suffering.  “Why else would she be with you?”

He glares at her, rage and fury and hellfire quickly filling the void of his heart.  “Get off my land.”  Then he turns, and goes back into his fortress.

… …

Belle sits motionless, her face still covered, with her arms and legs bound and restrained.  She gave up fighting and screaming only when her voice became hoarse and the restraints began to cut into her flesh from struggling against them so hard.  There is no use in wasting her energy.  She thinks she is probably in a carriage or a wagon.

Neither the man with the crushing arms that took her from the castle, nor the ones that restrained her, have spoken a word, no matter how much she demanded her release and to know who they were.

She has nothing else to do but sit and wait.

Eventually, after what must be hours, she feels the sizzle of magic in the air, licking at her skin, and the next thing she knows, she is unrestrained, with sunlight blinding her, and a hand at her back shoves her hard to the ground.  She turns, and finds a familiar face, no longer kind and supportive as she was yesterday, but smiling wickedly.

“You?” Belle whimpers, even more confused.  “I don’t understand, what –”  She rises to her knees, and as she looks around, she realizes that she is home, back in the middle of her village.  “What’s going on?  Where’s Rumpelstiltskin?”

The regal woman she met yesterday, still clad all in menacing black, bares her teeth in a smile.  “He’s in his castle, no doubt cursing your name.”

“What?  What are you talking about?”

The woman laughs with a sickening pleasure in her voice.  “I hardly think he’ll wish any kindness to the woman who betrayed him and tore his heart out.”

“No!  I didn’t!”  Belle staggers to her feet.  “You said – you said true loves kiss would break the curse!  You said I could free him!  I broke it, I love him!”

The woman laughs, the sound like knives in her ears.  “You stupid little girl.  There _was_ no curse.  Just a wretched, evil old man who’s forgotten how to love.  If he ever knew how in the first place.”

The knives stab in her heart now, and the world falls down around her, piece by piece.  “No, you’re wrong!”

She shrugs with a grin.  “Perhaps, but it no longer matters.  By now he’s already cast a spell upon you, Belle, the same one he used to protect your little town.  You will _never_ be able to find him no matter how desperately you try.”

She can’t breathe, chokes out - “No!”

“Oh yes.  Search every day for the rest of your life if you like.  You will never find him.”

The woman smiles smugly, and turns with a swish of her skirts.

Belle struggles and gasps for breath, but somehow, as hard as she tries, it’s not enough.  “Why?  _Why did you do this_?!”

The woman doesn’t even bother to turn around, only looks over her shoulder.  “Because I won’t allow some pathetic little peasant girl to turn his heart towards good.  He’s of no use to me that way.  Now go back to your poor little life, Belle.”  And she walks on.

Tears sting her eyes, pain, and fury, and fear and loss and love and sheer desperation fill her and destroy her and push her forward.  “No, you can’t do this!  I love him!”  She lunges forward, determined to do something, anything to make her undo this –

But just like that, the woman disappears in a puff of black and violet smoke, and Belle stumbles to the ground again, and when she hits, she shatters into a thousand irreparable pieces.  She lays on the ground, sobbing and helpless, and she hears her father’s voice as arms try to lift her up and comfort her.  But there is nothing he can say or do, nothing anyone can do, that will keep her heart from breaking.

As she lies there, sobbing in her father’s arms, she thinks she will be very lucky if this broken heart does not kill her entirely.

… …

Gold finds himself in a perpetual state of shock, still, nearly a week since talking to her last.  Since hearing her tell the story – every word of it true, he knows.  And that truth is devastating.  Even now, it makes him question everything he thought he knew, all the choices he’s made, in this life and the last.  The truth fills him with regret, and rage, and devastation, and desperation.

He has thought endlessly for many days, dreamed for many nights, of all that was within his reach, all that he lost, of all that could have been.  And now that the pain and anger of loss have begun to subside, he is beginning to think of what might be again.

He – _they_ – are not bound by their pasts.  Maybe some years ago, with the curse in full force, and things as they were back then, maybe things would have been different.  But now, everything changes by the day, rules rewritten and realities challenged.  Perhaps it was the very weakening of the curse itself that pushed them together.

Still, he knows that, though they are not imprisoned by their pasts, they may yet be doomed to repeat them.  It used to be that he didn’t want to see her again, didn’t want to be hurt again.  It was, he realizes, one of his deepest fears.  But now, he finds himself afraid of _losing_ her again.  He is afraid that this brief glimmer of happiness will only end with heart being ripped apart yet again.  But in this short amount of time he has spent with her, he has wanted nothing but to be near her, caress her face, touch her hair, hear the soft lilt of her voice.  Leaving her side this last time took every bit of effort, and left him feeling empty.  Thoughts of her, hopes of what might be haunt his dreams, and destroy his days.

None in that life ever looked upon him with the same kindness, gentleness, or unprejudiced affection as she did.  Even here, in this life, no one has ever treated him the way she did in just their brief moments together.  She has shown him only kindness, from the very moment they met.  And deep down, he knows that no matter how hard he may try, he will not be able to resist that pureness of heart forever.

He knows that if he does not seize this one, fleeting chance for happiness, he may as well condemn himself right here and now.

Now or never.

He plucks an old, dusty, tattered book from a shelf in a corner of the shop, and heads out the door without bothering to lock it behind him.  Today, the walk to the library takes eight minutes.

This time, when he enters the library, Anna does not come seek him out.  Instead, he finds her tucked away in a little nook, somewhere off in the fiction section.  In spite of the cart full of unshelved books beside her, she sits cross-legged on the floor, an old paperback novel in her lap.  No doubt she got distracted as she was putting things away, and it makes him smile.  She startles when he says her name, then smiles.

“Mr. Gold!”  She stands.  “What brings you here?”  He thinks she sounds glad to see him.  He doesn’t wait to consider any other possibility.

He takes a deep breath and holds up the book in his hand.  “Actually, I have something for you.”  He gives it to her, and she takes it with excited eyes.  “It’s from my shop.  It’s the only book I have in there, and it’s been there as long as I can remember.  I didn’t think there was much point in letting it collect dust forever… I thought you might like to have it.  As a gift, to say thank you.”

She smiles, again – always smiling and so beautiful.  “Thank you.  That’s so sweet.”  She opens the book, flips through a page or two, and then – before even she realizes it, he suspects – she is entranced, reading away.

“Anna.”

“Huh?”

He doesn’t give himself the time to hesitate, and takes the plunge.  “Would you like to have dinner with me this evening?”

She stares at him, open-mouthed.  “You mean… like a… date?”

“Yes.”

“Um…”  She stares at him, then at the book in her hands, then back at him.  “Sure.  Yes.”  Her cheeks turn bright red.  “Um, should I change before…?”

He shakes his head, and finally realizes that he’s grinning like a fool.  “No, what you’re wearing is fine.  You look lovely, actually.”

“Thank you…”  She hugs the book to her chest and looks down shyly, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.  “Um, the library closes at 7, and then I usually finish up a few things.  So I usually leave at about 7:20.”

“All right, 7:20 it is, then.”  He takes a step back, just enough so that he doesn’t kiss her right here and now.  “I’ll see you then.”

She bids him goodbye softly, glancing up at him only briefly.  Her cheeks are still pink.

Perhaps there is hope for him yet.


End file.
